wags of his crops as though conducting a string band.
Buzzaway was taking a long pull at his flask, and
everyone else had gone home. Will announced that
they were all there except Purity.
"Blast that Purity!" muttered Milden, whereupon
Purity emerged penitently from the shades of the
covert and the cavalcade moved off along the
So it came about that I found myself riding mutely
along in the middle of the pack with Buzzaway and
the Master. In front of us "Toprail", the hunting
correspondent of the Southern Daily, wobbled along
on his bicycle and accumulated information from the
second whip, a melancholy young man named Bill
Durrant, whose existence was made no merrier by
the horses he had to ride, especially the one he was
on—a herring-gutted piebald which, as he had been
heard to complain, was "something crool over
"Well, Master," remarked Buzzaway, "you were
devilish unlucky when that fresh fox got up in
Gowleas Wood! I viewed your hunted fox going
back to Danchurst Hatch, and he looked so beat I
could almost have caught him myself."
Mildcn tucked his horn into the case on his saddle.
"Beat, was he? We'll catch him next time, never
you fear. And we'll hunt you when we get short of
foxes. I'll be bound you'd leave a good smell behind
Buzzaway grinned with as much pleasure as if he'd
been paid the most graceful of compliments. Jabber,
jabber, jabber went his tongue, undiscouraged by the
inadequate response it met with. And considering
the amount of shouting he'd done during the day, it
wasn't to be wondered at that Milden was somewhat